


Put Your Venom In Me

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Blow Jobs, Curses, Demons, Devil Worshipping kinda, Fist Fights, M/M, Murder, Rumors, Smut, Violence, demon pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 22:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: Smoke and flame and the screams of hell appeared in Patrick’s bedroom as the girl stood in the doorway, chanting nonsense until it all sounded like a choking gurgle. Red heat and scorching cries filled the small area until all that was left was a young man clad in black. Dark horns stretched and curled away from his mess of black hair. Tattered wings like a bat’s unfolded from his bent back as he pulled away from the smoking floor, knocking over pictures and vases and other belongings as he stood. He seemed to test his body as the two villagers stared in shock, rolling his head around in unnatural angles and curling his hands— clawed and stained black with smoke and ash— into fists.The worst part, though, was his smile. Every inch of it seemed to bleed into the room as he tugged his lips into a horrible grin, tearing his flesh and cheeks until all that was seen were the fangs of something sent to destroy, a mouth meant to consume souls whole."I command you to kill him."<>Pete's a demon and Patrick's only kind of a devil worshipper<>For Trick or Pete 2018!





	Put Your Venom In Me

**Author's Note:**

> It's a little late but it's still Halloween here so it counts, haha. 
> 
> Angst isn't tagged (big shock) but it is still quite dark so beware of that. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy!! Please let me know what you think and have a happy halloween!

The wind tonight has a taunt in it, a teasing tone of whistling cries and howling secrets as it desperately tries to shove open Patrick’s windows and doors. He rushes from one end of the house to the other, checking latches and locks and cursing the day he was forced to live on the far end of the village. He used up his last stock of candles during last week’s storm and saw no reason to make the journey to the marketplace to buy more. Now, he’s left shuddering against the rain pelting down against the roof of his small home, thinking of how Pete had told him he’d need the flames.

Pete.

Hands gripping his arms tightly in a vain attempt to stave off the cold, Patrick peers outside once more. Storm clouds hide the lustrous night sky, the faintest hint of stars peering down through the scattered fog and lighting the path to the town Patrick calls his home. It’s late and no villagers in their right mind would make the journey alone in the dark.

But Pete had told Patrick he’d be back tonight and he’s no villager.

Patrick met Pete sometime last fall when the trees outside were burning with red-gold leaves and blazing with the threat of another fire in the woods surrounding their simple town. Abigail, a local maiden, had been Patrick’s closest friend since he was forced to take a job with her father— the blacksmith— upon his own parents’ deaths in a hunting accident. He hadn’t known that showing her kindness and favor was seen as courting; he hadn’t known the fury the townsfolk would show upon learning he had no intention to propose.

Patrick had heard snatches of rumors in the weeks following his declaration that he didn’t love Abigail— said in a drunken stupor at one of the taverns, joking about how she was more a little sister than a lover— and none of them were kind. Some suspected Patrick and Abigail would trade sexual favors and that Patrick had grown tired of her, found a new girl and moved on. Others, still, guessed that his interest in women was overall lacking and a great many of the men at the local taverns had too much fun wondering why Patrick wouldn’t be able to join a woman in bed. By the end of that gossip, Patrick had heard enough “stump” jokes to last him a lifetime.

The worst lies, though, were the ones which painted Abigail in an unfavorable light-- for those were the ones that turned her against him. Calling her stupid and naive or brazen and promiscuous, people amused themselves by imagining a young girl foolishly trying to seduce a man who didn't care for her. While Patrick’s rumors were mere jokes, Abigail was treated like a whore who’d been exposed.

Looking at it that way, Patrick can understand why she did what she did next. Trading her father’s planned dowry for a book of old ritual spells— sold by a man with a bright red jacket and a fancy black hat upon his head—, Abigail broke into Patrick’s home one night and said she was going to curse him.

Smoke and flame and the screams of hell appeared in Patrick’s bedroom as Abigail stood in the doorway, chanting nonsense until it all sounded like a choking gurgle. Red heat and scorching cries filled the small area until all that was left was a young man clad in black. Dark horns stretched and curled away from his mess of black hair. Tattered wings like a bat’s unfolded from his bent back as he pulled away from the smoking floor, knocking over pictures and vases and other belongings as he stood. He seemed to test his body as the two villagers stared in shock, rolling his head around in unnatural angles and curling his hands— clawed and stained black with smoke and ash— into fists.

The worst part, though, was his smile. Every inch of it seemed to bleed into the room as he tugged his lips into a horrible grin, tearing his flesh and cheeks until all that was seen were the fangs of something sent to destroy, a mouth meant to consume souls whole.

_ Kingston _ , Abigal had called him, her voice that of someone who hadn’t expected her spell to work. Later, Patrick would learn why he was called the son of a king, would understand what realm’s home he was to inherit, and nothing would shock him more.  _ Kingston, I command you to kill him _ .

_ You imagine you can tell me what to do? _  Kingston’s voice was multitoned, his red-brown eyes flashing with something powerful enough to set the room ablaze.  _ You summon me from my home and you believe that gives you control? _

A year later and Patrick still tries to forget the way Kingston had advanced on Abigail, the way that terrible mouth had opened and torn her to shreds. It does him no good to think of how she was too scared to even scream and how the town so easily believed she had run away, overcome with the shame of Patrick’s disinterest. Patrick had moved far from the town’s homes and people but not before Kingston had introduced himself; not before Kingston had given Patrick every reason to distance himself from the people of his home.

Abigail’s curse tied Kingston to Patrick’s soul and, when the time comes, Kingston will collect Patrick’s life and carry it into hell with him.

Until then, though, Patrick is stuck with the most vexatious demon known to man— or god or hell or anywhere, really.

A month after Abigail’s summoning, Kingston took on the form of Peter, a human with the same burning eyes and unsettling aura. The town grew to like him, to trust him, calling him by a saint’s name when, every night, he spoke to Patrick of how he’d love to tear all their throats out.

Tonight, though, Pete’s not around and Patrick’s known him long enough to understand he’s doing what no saint would— giving in to carnal desires of pleasure and lust, promising pretty maidens and handsome men that a night with the devil will mean nothing in the morning. He’ll be in their beds and homes and hearts until the sun rises and he forgets them, moving on to the next one like a bird choosing twigs for its home.

And then he’ll come home and tell Patrick all about it. And Patrick, cursed and alone, will hate every second. His skin will burn when Pete speaks of running his hands across some maiden’s plump breasts. His breath will keep trapped in his lungs, a prisoner of his own vices, when Pete details the lips of some young man he met in the tavern that night. Patrick’s heart will spread ugly toxins, invading his arteries and thoughts with nothing but sin when Pete mimics the moans he heard, the groans he gave, and Patrick will wish Pete had just killed these people instead.

Patrick sits at the table, overcome with his own thoughts, and shakes his head to distract from how his hands are shaking.

“It’s the curse,” he tells himself. “I can’t let it win.”

It, the curse, the forced affections for someone he can never have. Surely, this is what Abigail wished upon him when she screamed that he would hurt as she did. This gnawing ache inside his chest when he looks at Pete, wanting but never having him entirely. Yes, Pete will touch and hold and fuck him but he won’t love him. He won’t treat him as more than a victim waiting to be tortured and the lack of care is worse than any physical harm Pete could bring.

Patrick shuts his eyes and swallows hard. He should pray, he knows. Temptation and envy are sins and, though his soul is already marked for hell, at least the words make for a suitable distraction.

“Our father,” Patrick says, a recitation rather than something of meaning. The words fall from his lips like sparks from a flame, each one more bitter than the last as he begs for his temptation to be taken away; as he begs for Pete to stay at his side nonetheless. “Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil, for—”

“Thinking about me?”

Patrick doesn’t jump the way he used to when Pete would appear without a sound but he does catch his breath and hope— the same way he hopes every night— that Pete can’t read his mind.

“Never,” Patrick says, turning around to face him. “You’re back early.”

Pete fixes him with a rakish smile, sharp-toothed and teasing. “I saw the storm. I wanted to rub it in your face that I warned you about needing candles.”

“Right,” Patrick says, looking away from Pete. A loose black shirt hangs from his frame, exposing delicious gold tanned shoulders and collarbones, shining even in the dim light of Patrick’s last candle. Sweat coats his skin and hair, a testament to the kind of night he’d been having. “Well, you told me. You can go back to your fun now.”

Patrick’s soul burns. It flares like something noxious thrown into the sun, lashing out at stars and planets and comets as they dare come across his path.

“Trick.” Pete’s close without moving, his voice in Patrick’s ear though he stands on the other side of the room. The softness of the  _ tr _ , the harsh cut of the  _ k…  _ Patrick shudders and looks back up into red-brown eyes, as deep as the galaxy around them. “I came back to see  _ you _ .”

A spell of its own, Pete’s voice wraps around Patrick’s very being, drying his mouth and bringing a blushing heat to his face. For a moment, the fire in Patrick’s soul quells and he licks his lips as Pete steps closer.

“Well, I’m here,” he says, all envy and anger gone when Pete smirks. It’s wrong— so wrong— but Patrick smiles back, gasping when Pete kneels down to face him, fitting himself between Patrick’s legs. “What did you want to see?”

Pete’s a demon, a son of the greatest tempter, and he’s perfect at pretending he’s the human he portrays himself as. When Patrick runs a hand through Pete’s hair, he nuzzles into the touch, turning to lick a stripe up his palm and grinning sharply at Patrick’s gasp.

It’s easy to pretend Pete’s human. But Patrick prefers it when he’s a demon. It makes the sin that much more excusable— just as much as it makes it enjoyable.

“You’re my demon. You’re tied to my soul, right?” Patrick whispers, pushing down on Pete’s head until he’s mouthing at his crotch, open-mouthed kisses at the bulge growing beneath Patrick’s tight breeches. Patrick spreads his legs further, lifting and bending his right leg to hook Pete in place.

He knows, somewhere in his mind, that Pete could escape if he wished, could overpower him and end this game of control; Pete’s done it before, a night of pinned wrists and writhing bodies, gasps and moans as Pete spent an entire evening touching Patrick everywhere but where he needed. Every night, now, is a game of who will take charge; who will beg and who will laugh at the sound.

“Does saying that make this easier for you? Blaming the—  _ ah _ — the devil?  _ Fuck _ .” Pete’s words cut off in a pleasured surprise when Patrick pulls his hair. Small strands of loosened black rest between his fingers and Patrick scatters them across the floor, falling against the table with a stuttered cry when Pete begins to unbutton Patrick’s pants, pressing down as he does so.

“Devil? I thought you were just a demon,” Patrick pants, giving up on any pretense that he can keep his voice even.

“Devil,” Pete mutters, finally freeing Patrick’s cock and breathing hell-hot breaths over it. “One day.”

“Okay,” Patrick says. Nails dig into the wooden seat beneath him, fitting into the familiar crescent indents left from the last time they did this. “Okay. Devil.”

Pete’s response is a laugh that mimics the wind outside, a chuckle echoing the pitter-patter of rain against the roof. He licks a cruel and teasing stripe up Patrick’s cock, groaning loudly and lewdly as he does so. Though Patrick’s trapped him in with his legs, Pete retaliates with his hands pressing down on Patrick’s thighs, spreading them further apart and exposing every sensitive place between.

“Pete, please, Pete. Please, my Kingston, my Pete, my King--” Patrick’s lips drip with Pete’s name— the false saint title and the truth he can’t bear to speak unless his mind’s distracted with moments like this. The heat from Patrick’s envious soul searches for another home, taking root in his lips as he wonders— not for the first time— what it would feel like if he threw away all morals, all pretense at goodness, and let himself kiss the devil-to-be.

With one hand pressing down Patrick’s thigh, hard enough to find the muscle beneath a layer of warm softness, Pete uses his free hand to stroke Patrick’s hardening length, laughing in tune with each of Patrick’s mewls and cries.

“You’re worse than any demon,” Pete says as he tightens his grip and twists his wrist just enough that Patrick’s hips struggle to jerk forward. “You think I don’t see the way you look at me? The terrible thoughts that keep you waiting up at night? Even though you know I’m with someone else? I bet you wish you were all of them, fucking and being fucked. I bet I could take you right in the middle of the village and you wouldn’t even care, not if it meant you were getting  _ this _ .”

Pete punctuates his cruel words with a sharp bite on Patrick’s hip, sucking and nibbling until a red stain the shape of his mouth is all that’s left on the pretty pale skin. Patrick’s breaths are heated flames in his throat and lungs as Pete licks and kisses his way to the base of Patrick’s cock, ducking his head to mouth at his balls until, finally, pulling away to take the tip of it into his mouth.

“Pete!” Patrick cries, hands flying to the head of dark hair and trying to push him down, further and further, until Pete’s nose brushes coarse curls of red-gold at the base. Patrick struggles to keep from thrusting, to keep from losing himself to the damp warmth swallowing around his cock. But Pete’s eyes burn into his very core when he looks up from under those dark lashes and Patrick loses control. Pete’s throat opens up for him, his jaw goes slack, and Patrick sees sparks and stars behind his eyes with every thrust into that perfect pleasure.

He cries out Pete’s name as he grows closer to the edge, tingling warmth collecting in his groin and guts, and his grip on Pete’s hair tightens, controlling the pace and warning him of his climax.

Pete, though, pulls back, easily loosening Patrick’s fingers from his hair. Patrick gasps so harshly he nearly chokes on it, entire body tensing in overwhelmed frustration as his promised orgasm tapers away. He goes slack against the table, fingers twitching with the need to touch, knowing full well Pete will just move his hand back if he dares to try.

“No, not yet,” Pete says, ignoring Patrick’s broken curses and pleas; Patrick almost sounds like he's crying. “You’ve been thinking of this all night, right? Do you really want it to end so soon? Besides, I gave up a good fuck to be with you now— a pretty little blonde thing hiking up her skirts just because I offered to show her a good time. You can make up for that by waiting. I’ll get you close then I’ll stop and let you come down. Then I’ll do it again. And again. Until you’re begging and moaning for release and you remember who your soul belongs to. Then, maybe, just maybe, I might fuck you.”

Patrick’s protests cut off with a defeated moan when Pete presses his hand hard against Patrick’s cock, an eyebrow raised as Patrick’s hips jerk up in small thrusts desperately seeking friction. He’s barely aware of his own breathing as Pete mutters his intents again, all sorts of dirty things that bring a hot blush to Patrick’s skin.

“Demon,” he hisses when Pete presses on his hips to keep them in place, going down on him again. “Devil.”

“You know my name, Patrick,” Pete says, pulling away and stalling with soft licks. “Will you say it for me?”

Patrick’s in no position to hesitate, his release held hostage as Pete draws him closer and closer but never close enough.

“Peter,” he says, at last, moaning the word. “My Peter.”

“And my Patrick,” Pete says, somehow twisting it to sound like a perverse praise.

Patrick shuts his eyes and lets the possession take over him, mixing with pleasure and desire and sin.

His demon— his Pete— grins.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

The next day at the village, it’s as if the heavens have opened up with brilliant blue skies and stunning white clouds. Pete hides from the beauty with a low growl, curling beneath Patrick’s blankets and muttering that  _ Patrick  _ can go to the market today.

Patrick dresses slowly and with a melody slipping free from his throat, rich notes swirling around the house and waking Pete from his attempts at more rest. He’s likened Patrick’s voice to another summoning, a haunting sound that all demons would flock to if given the chance. He says it natural, a sign Patrick was meant to be tied to a demon some day; Patrick reduces it down to the red mark burned onto the side of his neck, the blazing bat that appeared the moment Pete declared Patrick’s soul to be his. It’s a mark he’s had to hide, with little luck, and it’s a mark that’s sent more gossip, more rumors, lining up alongside his name in people’s mouths.

The thing about rumors is that they stick. Not always in the same form but the original intent— the harm, the fear, the mistrust— is always there. Impossible to hide, the trembling of leaves even after a storm has stopped, Patrick’s been stained with rumors. Say a girl is just a friend and suddenly you’ve taken her honor, sent her away in shame, stolen virtue and prepared to move on. Show up to the market with an unexplained scar and, suddenly, you’re a monster.

A devil-worshipper, they call him— though no one follows through on any of the threats to find the truth. Pete bristles every time someone says it of Patrick. He says the tensions grow each day, that the people will eventually turn on him and, by then, it will be too late.

Patrick merely smirks at such accusations. There’s something strangely amusing about being called a devil-worshipper when his knees and backside are sore from worshipping a demon in a different way the night before.

As always, Pete peeks out from beneath the covers and locks his inhuman eyes on Patrick.

“Be safe,” he says. “Abigail’s father has returned from his searches for her— empty-handed, of course. I imagine he will not take kindly to seeing you.”

“Yes, well, I imagine I’ll just direct him to the demon lounging in my bed, then.” Patrick pauses, fully dressed, and turns to Pete with a gentle frown. This scene, this moment, it’s easy for him to fantasize of walking back to the side of the bed to kiss his supposed lover goodbye. Would Pete cling to his shirt, cause the kiss to last a moment longer? Or would it be short, decent, a peck and nothing more? It’s not worth thinking about so he clears his throat and looks away. “You stay safe, as well. None of this… demonic stuff, you hear me? The people have enough suspicions as it is.”

“Suspicions that have nothing to do with your beliefs and everything to do with the way you’re always limping into the marketplace,” Pete says with a devilish smirk. His teeth seem sharper when the sun’s glancing in through the bedroom window, peeking in on the scene between demon and victim. “Off with you, then. And don’t forget the candles; it may be warm now but I imagine you’ll be needing the fire very soon.”

There’s no point of goodbyes with Pete, not unless Patrick wants to be mocked for the show of affection or humanity, so he huffs out a tired breath and leaves. A small bag hooked over his shoulder and a neckerchief hiding his demon’s mark, Patrick begins the journey to the village’s market. Though it’s a pain to trek for the better part of the morning beneath the rising sun, the emptiness of the path gives him time to hope the villagers leave him be. As much and as often as he hates to admit it, Pete’s right about the growing tensions. The village is due for another scandal and it’s always easy to fall back on the victims of the older ones.

His hopes, however, seem to have paid off as the marketplace is bustling with new vendors and excited families scanning the goods at each booth or cart. Food and fabrics and lucky charms call to Patrick with their vibrant colors and promises of being the best in the land. He slips easily through the crowds, holding his bag closer, and heads for the familiar tables of long white candles.

“Morning, Patrick!” The young boy, Evan, says from behind the stand. He’s young enough to have missed the rumors when they first began and is still in the precious stage of not caring about what others have to say about the people he’s already deemed as good. “Need some candles for the coming storms? My dad said it’s gonna be a heavy one when it hits.”

Patrick nods, smiling even as Pete’s similar warning plays through his mind. Evan quickly gets to work sorting out the good candles from the bad ones, muttering about how he’d made a batch yesterday with shortened wicks and how he doesn’t want to send Patrick home with those. His chirpy voice eases Patrick’s nerves and he breathes a bit easier with the bustle of the nameless people around him.

But, then, a booming voice overtakes the crowd and everyone turns. Even Evan drops the candles he’d been holding, looking nervously over at the broad man thundering through the crowd to them.

“Patrick Stump!” He shouts. Red colors his face, an ugly shade compared to the clean whiteness of his thinning hair and the familiar green lights in his eyes. He shouts again, anger shaking the air around them. “Patrick, I’ve had enough! I demand you tell me what you’ve done with my daughter!”

Guilt rises like bile in Patrick’s throat, coating his tongue and choking his words. “I’ve told you before, Samuel. I don’t know where Abigail went.”

Samuel comes to a stop before him and slams his hand against Evan’s table, candles rolling and falling off the edge.

“I practically named you my own son after your parents died and this is how you repay my family? By hiding my daughter? By lying to everyone here?” Samuel continues as if Patrick hadn’t spoken. “And now I’ve heard you’ve been making deals with the devil! Is that what you’ve done with her? Sold her off to hell to save your own damn reputation here?”

“I assure you, sir, there was no reputation to save after your daughter’s decision to leave,” Patrick says. It’s a horrible situation but the edges of his lips twitch with the thought of  _ him  _ being the one to curse Abigal when, really, it was the exact opposite. He wonders how quickly they’d exile him from their community if he were to explain that. “I live alone on the edges of town and only come down here for the necessities. Yet my name is still connected to these rumors— rumors which, I might add, have no proof or substance or—”

Again, Samuel slams a hand down against the table and, this time, he’s holding a book down on it.

Abigail’s ritual book; the collection of curses and wicked spells. Though Patrick had never seen it, only heard Abigail’s gloating over owning such a thing, he recognizes the mutilated bat on the cover— the same as the one decorating his neck.

Breathing deeply, breathing fearfully, Patrick forces himself to look away. “Am I to know what that is?”

Samuel smiles and the crowd gathered around them draws in closer, sensing the same threats that Patrick does in each line of his grin.

“You say we all toss rumors around about you but I don’t think you understand how deep those rumors go.” Samuel’s voice is low, frightening, and Patrick holds his breath as each word drops into the air. “I’ve done some talking and I know what the people know. The man you keep hidden at your house. The stench of fire and flames always following you around. The guilt on your face whenever anyone says Abigail’s name. And not to mention the damned mark on your skin!”

Patrick doesn’t pull away quick enough, doesn’t see him coming, and Samuel’s suddenly gripping his neckerchief, tugging and grunting until it tears with a ripping sound that echoes through Patrick’s ears. It’s buried, though, by the rushing of blood to his face, the gasping of his own breaths, the screaming realization of being found out.

Samuel tosses the fabric to the ground like trash, pointing with a thick finger at the damning bat standing out against Patrick’s skin. Patrick slaps his hand over the mark, realizing too late how condemning such an action is.

“See how he hides his connections with the devil?” Samuel asks, turning to face the gasping crowd. Even Evan, scrambling to his feet with arms full of candles, stares at Patrick with wide-eyed horror. “How can anyone say this is a good god-fearing man?”

Samuel speaks like an entertainer, throwing out vile accusations and calling for Patrick to be locked up. He says Patrick killed his daughter in cold blood, blames a dozen more murders across the kingdom on him. He speaks of how he’s so certain Patrick’s given his own mind and soul to a demon, a slave to everything hell desires.

Each word burns Patrick’s skin, tearing into his soul with a red-hot iron and shading everything in the colors of his rage.

“Tell me, did you first sell your soul or your body to the devil?” Samuel asks, turning back towards Patrick with a dirty sneer. Somewhere, deep down, Patrick knows this is the anger of a man who’s lost his daughter, the pain of someone needing something to blame.

But, right now, he’s just another person poisoning the town with lies about Patrick’s good name— someone trying to hurt or shame him.

“Excuse me?” Patrick asks, the words tight.

Samuel looks at him as if he’s stupid, shouting each word to be sure Patrick fully understands. “Are you the devil’s bitch?”

Pain explodes across Patrick’s knuckles and it’s only when the people scream— only when Samuel stumbles back with blood dripping from his nose— that Patrick understands he’d hit him. Understanding is all he does, though, before he attacks again, throwing hard punches and baring his teeth as Samuel and the crowd call him every horrible name they can think of. It’s only a few moments before Samuel's fighting back, knocking Patrick’s head to the side with a meaty fist, and Patrick’s tongue bursts between his teeth. Heavy breaths heave in and out from Patrick’s chest as the crowd begins to chant for Samuel to beat him, to hurt him, to kill him the way they believe he killed Abigail.

“Stupid son of a bitch!” Samuel spits and Patrick wants nothing more than to split his lips with a few good more hits. When someone from the crowd steps in to slap his cheek— when the crowd moves from spectator to participant— it only fuels his urges more.

Patrick’s quick in his fights— observant with an eye for the most vulnerable spots. But the crowd is stronger, the men closing in with fists of their own.

Someone with tan skin grabs his arm and tugs him away and Patrick thinks of Pete, of last night, of how this might be one of those boys Pete likes to fuck when Patrick’s not good enough.

The snapping Patrick feels in his head at such a thought is like the breaking of bones.

Patrick gets away easily, laying blows into the boy’s ribs until he hears the matching snap.

“Fucker!” The boy cries, connecting his fist with Patrick’s chin. It’s a sloppy punch but Patrick wasn’t expecting it and he stumbles back, loses his footing, and the crowd falls upon him at once.

They hit him like a wave in the sea, desperate and wild, and there’s no way for Patrick to stop them all. He gets a few more hits, hides behind those cocky enough to show their energy fading. Bruises form beneath his hands as he fights to hit anyone or anything, his palms aching from how his nails dig into the skin— like crescent dents into wooden chairs. It’s a reminder of that softness Pete always says he has; it’s a reminder of Pete.

“Leave him alone now, before the guards come!” Someone shouts. People disperse like beetles, some leaving without a word and some making sure to give one more good hit. Samuel’s one of the few who remains, breathing heavily and wiping his bleeding knuckles on his shirt.

“I want you and your demon gone,” he says, spitting blood out alongside his words. “Even if I have to do it myself.”

One more hit across Patrick’s temple, more forceful than any others he’s been dealt today. A shadowy burst of pain consumes him as he falls to his knees, bringing tears to his eyes.

When he falls to the ground, vision slipping into darkness, everyone finally leaves.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Patrick awakens to red-brown eyes and a thousand voices calling his name. He blinks, feeling his eyes cross before focusing on the muttering demon hovering over him.

“Pete?” He asks, shoving him away to sit up. His head pangs in protest, something within his brain beating against his skull with each movement he makes. With a wince, he presses a hand against his forehead, forcing down bouts of nausea as he looks around himself. He’s in his bedroom, sprawled across the bed and changed into his night clothes.

And Pete stands at the side, slowly fading back into his human form— though his eyes, Patrick notices, burn as bright as ever. Patrick’s clothes lay in a dirty pile at Pete’s feet, lit by the moonbeams gazing in through the window, as certain as Pete’s hiss when Patrick groans in pain.

Pete brought him home and changed him; Evan must have run off to fetch him, the way he’s done numerous times before. For a while, Patrick tries to recall what sent Evan off this time. Had Patrick fallen asleep in the tavern once more? It would explain the throbbing throughout his body, the splitting of his skull and spine. Or had he attempted his own way home, drunk and rambling about jealous loves, only to end up making a mess over his clothes and dignity? Again, not the first time he’s dealt with such a thing— especially on the days following Pete’s late-night endeavors. Stupid demon with his stupid urges, tricking the younger townspeople into immorality and sin. Patrick imagines Abigail would have never—

Abigail.

With a shock of lightning through his thoughts, Patrick remembers Abigail’s father and all his accusations, his heavy fists and the feeling of his blood on Patrick’s skin. He remembers how everyone had fallen on him with gossip and anger, threatening him and his pet demon— as they said.

Patrick whips his head to look to Pete, black spots spinning circles through his vision with painful jabs as he tries to focus.

“Pete, you need to leave,” he says around the sick feeling crawling up his throat. “The villagers, Abigail’s father, they…” He swallows down bile and sick, a result of both his injuries and fears.

“They hurt you,” Pete says, his voice as dark as his hair when he brushes his fingertips down Patrick’s cheek. “They  _ hurt  _ you.”

“Do you hear me?” Patrick shoves away his blankets and stumbles to his feet, biting his lip when his right knee gives out. It takes a few tries to stand, to shut the windows and turn to Pete, but he does so as quickly as he can. “They’re going to come for us, for you. You need to leave before they, before they get here. If they discover you, they’ll—”

“They’ll what?” Pete steps forward until his body is mere inches from his, the heat from his being brushing against every part of Patrick. “I’m a demon, a devil. These people cannot drive me from my home without damning themselves. They cannot move me or cause me fear. There’s nothing they can do.” Hands wrap around Patrick’s neck, thumbs pressing against a thudding pulse. “Nothing they can do  _ to me _ . But there is everything they can do to you.”

Pete’s hands tighten, cutting off Patrick’s pulse and breaths with nothing but a flicker of emotion in his eyes. Patrick tries to gasp but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t fight even when the burn on his neck grows warm.

“Pete,” he mouths, using what breath he has to speak the name. “Kingston, what—”

“What, indeed,” Pete says, cocking his head to the side. “What is it about you, Patrick, that makes me want to run away, as you suggest we do? What is it about you that makes me want to hide you from the rest of the world?”

The words rest in the air, hanging between them and waiting for permission to fall. Like thunder growing within clouds or lightning finding a place to strike, Pete’s breaths push his statements back and forth, a steady resilience forming in his eyes.

“I could stay and I’d be safe and this task would be through. They’ll ease their bloodlust with your pain and I could return home,” Pete says as if speaking only to himself. Patrick barely hears, barely understands the meaning of his voice as his lungs begin to ache for air and his heart begins to lose its comfortable rhythm. His vision dims and he can’t speak, can’t breathe, and survival is the only reason he lifts a shaky hand to Pete’s wrist.

“Please.” He doesn’t even hear himself, doesn’t know if this is the word he wants and— if it is— why he’d say it at all. But Pete’s eyes suddenly solidify their surety, blazing with promise as he lets Patrick go. Patrick falls back down to the bed, gasping and choking and rubbing at the new bruises forming on his skin. Pete pays him little mind, turning to face the bedroom door.

“But it’s  _ my _  task to take your soul. These children will not steal my purpose,” he says. Wings unfold from a black smoke across his back, claws extending from his nails as he stretches his hands out. Patrick watches, hand to his neck, and swallows painfully.

Outside, in the distance, he hears voices roaring his name.

“They’re coming,” he says, voice wrecked. “They’re coming and they won’t stop until we’re dead. Or, well, until I’m dead and you’re banished back to hell.”

Through the slats of his window, Patrick sees torches held high above the path, weapons glinting with the firelight and growing closer with a dangerous speed.

“Didn’t I say they wouldn’t take you from me?” Pete turns, a full demon with fangs and dangerous eyes, horns curled around his head and black markings clinging to his skin. He’s terrible, horrible, everything the villagers have said demons are, but Patrick doesn’t flinch when Pete comes to stand before him. Pete sticks a hand out. “Let me keep you safe.”

Something about his words, something about the rumbling of his many voices, sends shudders down Patrick’s spine. He lifts his own hand, still battered from the day’s fight and still shaking from Pete’s strangulation, and hovers it above Pete’s.

“How would you do it?” He asks, staring at their hands, refusing to look up.

Pete’s smile is evident in his voice. “It is against my rights on this earth to harm those who are not marked to me— to spill their blood with my hands would be to call heaven’s armies to their aid. But I don’t have to use my hands; I don’t have to touch them, at all.”

At this, Patrick’s head snaps up. His heart races so quickly in his chest, he’s certain it isn’t truly moving at all. “What?”

“Oh, don’t act naive. Certainly, you’ve heard of possession?” Pete lifts his hand to meet Patrick’s but he doesn’t grab ahold of it. His fingers trace meaningless patterns to Patrick’s wrist, leaving trails of sensitive nerves yearning in their wake. “Just say yes. Trust me and give yourself over to my control. Let me inside you, Patrick— it’s nothing you haven’t done before.”

Pete’s smirk and his last words are distracting enough for Patrick to glare in his direction, even as his cheeks warm at the thought of letting Pete own him entirely. His being, his mind, his control— all Pete’s to have, if only for a moment.

As Pete presses his other hand over Patrick’s, enveloping it in the warmth he’s only ever felt with Pete, he forgets why it’d be such a bad idea. For the past year, Pete’s the only one to have held him, to touch him, to treat him as more than the rumors pinned to his back. Pete— Kingston, devil— is the only being to smile at him every morning, no matter how sharp that smile may be.

“You’re running out of time,” Pete says, eyes flicking towards the window where the first wave of Patrick’s haters have made their way to his garden, kicking through flowers and cutting through bushes.

“Let’s burn ‘im out!” One of the younger men shouts to the agreement of many others. Their laughter echoes through the night, torches raised high before someone drops theirs to the base of Patrick’s home.

Patrick looks up to Pete, his breath caught in his throat as the sound of growing flames takes over his thoughts.

“What will it be like?” He says, not missing Pete’s smile at the words. “Will it, will I…”

“It will hurt,” Pete promises and Patrick can imagine he sees something like regret in his eyes. “It will burn like nothing in this world can burn.”

The words sink in and Patrick shuts his eyes.

Burning. It always comes back to burning.

And it’s nothing that would never happen anyway. Not to his house, not to his body, not to his very soul.

“Fine,” he says, immediately second-guessing his decision. He fights these fears back with the jeers of the men trying to tear down his door, trying to break through his window. “Fine, just. Just do it.”

He doesn’t see Pete’s smile but he feels it when Pete leans in, cheek to Patrick’s cheek and his hands back around his throat. They’re softer this time, pressing only against the bat mark on the side.

“I’ll try to be quick,” Pete says. This time, Patrick knows he hears tenderness, knows the patterns of apology in Pete’s tone. “And I’ll try not to kill any of your friends.”

“What?” Patrick’s eyes open but it’s already too late.

Pete sinks his teeth into Patrick’s neck, his demonic mouth torn wide open to consume his throat and veins whole. Teeth and fangs latch into his skin, fire emerging from their contact and spreading across Patrick with a fury found only in hell.

Patrick screams and pulls back but Pete keeps him in place, a hand on the small of his back and the other on the back of his neck. Patrick can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t feel his own heart beating as something dark and twisted slips into his blood, his body, his being. Everything is black smoke, needles in every inch of the air burning into Patrick’s skin.

He’s caught on fire, he’s sure. Pete was too late and the fire reached his room, reached him, and he’s burning alive. Though his eyes are blinded by the thick smoke filling the room, he can feel strips of flesh falling away as the flames tear at him. He can feel his blood bubbling beneath his skin before drying up, leaving him empty and hollow and in pain and—

It stops with the steady slowness of a rainstorm, fading away until only the dampness of his tears and the warmth of the smoke is all that remains. He tries to open his eyes, to be certain he’s not been burnt to a crisp.

He can’t move. Something— someone— in his mind laughs and Patrick recognizes the sound of Pete’s voice.

It’s Pete who opens Patrick’s eyes from inside, who stands with a surety Patrick’s never felt before. He’s a puppet on Pete’s strings and Pete’s whispering inside his brain. Now that he knows he’s here, Patrick can feel Pete everywhere. He burns into Patrick’s soul, his brain, his beating heart. Patrick’s never felt so vulnerable, so exposed, and it’s as if that fire had ripped away every last bit of his defenses. Pete pokes and prods into emotions, into memories, into the fantasies Patrick concocts when Pete’s not there to satisfy him.

When Pete recognizes this lust and want for love, he doesn’t laugh and an emotion too powerful to be Patrick’s fills their connected mind. It’s the same emotion Pete’s pried into but stronger, the desires of a being too terrible to understand what they mean.

Patrick tries to call to Pete but the bedroom door slams open. Men file in, knives and torches in their hand.

“There he is,” Samuel says, leading the charge. “Hiding like a child, Patrick? You always were a coward.”

Anger that’s not his own flares in Patrick’s body, hot and red and furious. He growls with every voice he’s heard Pete use and every voice his own throat can give. He folds clawed hands into fists, Pete’s attributes emerging from his body with the intensity of flames in the night.

The men back away, eyes wide.

Patrick feels himself smile with new teeth. He feels himself grow hungry for their blood, for the sight of their throats left slashed and exposed. He smells the fear in their blood— the trace of horror and incomprehension flooding their systems, paining their hearts; all the emotions are so alike Patrick feels no need to differentiate one man from the other.

Through the haze of bloodlust and rage, he feels Pete’s need to protect him. He feels Pete’s plan to launch forward and he feels when Pete decides he’s ready for the kill.

With inhuman speed, Patrick throws himself at the group.

Everything goes red before his hands tear into the first man.

<><><> <><><> <><><>

Blood. Fire. Horrible, horrible screams.

Patrick pulls himself up from the ground as if waking, blurred scenes of destruction playing through his mind— borrowed memories made by a demon’s hand. He sees bodies at his feet, their skin and blood on his palms and beneath his nails. All their mouths are left open, gaping holes slashed wider than humanly possible, screaming for eternity.

He turns slowly, taking in the flames licking at the buildings around him. He’s not in his home, not far from the town. The heart of the village greets him, the marketplace slowly burning to the ground.

“Another mob was gathering here.” Pete’s voice, behind him. Just one voice, just the one that always seems to drown out every other chaos— even fire, even Patrick’s heart. “I stopped them.”

Patrick looks to Pete, rolling his head over his shoulder to gaze at the stone-faced demon. Pete’s in full hellish form but no blood stains his garish cloaks; no murders are seen in his eyes. Still, his fangs light up like stars when he grins, their sharp points calling to Patrick with the promise of more blood.

“Did you kill them all?” Patrick asks, eyes scanning the flames and smoke reaching up into the sky, a sinner striving for an impossible god. “The town, the people, all of them?”

“Most of them,” Pete corrects, moving to stand at Patrick’s side. He’s close enough that Patrick feels hell rolling off from in waves, death emanating from deep within Pete’s core. “Some escaped. They’ll come back with an army. I’ve seen this before, this obsession with ridding the world of things like me— like us. They’ll tell the guards, the knights, the king. They’ll stop at nothing to free this world of a demon and his worshipper.”

Patrick doesn’t correct him, doesn’t bother with fighting what he’s become. Pete holds out his hand and Patrick takes it, careful not to stain Pete with the blood of his victims.

“Do we run?” He asks, knowing the answer.

Pete answers anyway. “We protect ourselves. But only if you let me.”

Pete’s touch is a thunderstorm, a natural disaster pulling Patrick in with its otherworldly beauty and awe. His touch is a flood, a hurricane, an apocalypse.

His touch is fire; his touch is Patrick’s.

“Did you feel what was in my mind when you were in there?” Patrick asks, gazing down at their linked hands. He doesn’t feel the fear he might have once encountered, the guilt and resentment at his own desires and wants and needs. He barely feels anything other than certainty. Even his questions sound like statements. “Did you see it all?”

“Yes.” For once, Pete’s voice is soft, a whisper of something that could be so much more.

Patrick tightens his hold on Pete’s hand, swallowing hard before finding his words. “Before I give you my answer, you must give me yours. Is that just part of the curse? Was I forced into the most perverse love? Love which cannot be returned?”

Pete frees his hand from Patrick’s and Patrick holds his breath, holds smoke deep in lungs as Pete moves before him, reaching to wipe blood-soaked hair back from Patrick’s face.

“Your curse is to burn in hell. Infinitely. Horrifically. Painfully.” Pete says each word like a tender promise, a gift he’s bestowing upon Patrick. “I will be the one to drag you there, be sure of that. But you must also be sure that I love you. You’re a mystery unlike any other human— to even call you a mortal would be a lie for you have a soul made of stars and earth and fire. I want you like no demon should want a human.”

Patrick licks his lips, the crackling of the fire and collapsing buildings dulling in his ears as he looks into Pete’s eyes, blazing with the same emotions Patrick feels deep in his soul.

“And I want you like no human should want a demon.” He grabs Pete’s hands once more, bringing them to his lips, the kiss slick with the blood of those whose throats had been torn out. “I want you in any way I can have you. As a curse or possession or lover. I want you.”

It’s Pete’s turn to catch his breath, looking upon Patrick with something like wonder sparkling in his eyes. “Even knowing I will burn you? Even knowing only hell awaits and that it will be by my hand?”

“Yes.” Patrick wastes no time responding, pushing forward until he’s chest-to-chest with Pete. “Maybe I am nothing but a corrupt devil-worshipper— a sinner in all the worst ways— but I know I want this. I know the flames will be worth it.”

Pete’s eyes search Patrick’s face, scanning every bead of sweat and stain of blood.

When he pulls Patrick in for an embrace— warm, hot, scorching— Patrick falls into him willingly, nuzzling into Pete’s neck and breathing in his scent— ash and smoke and hell.

“One day, I will inherit the throne and I will pull you from the fires myself,” he promises, his voice growing thick with his many tones. “Can you be strong for me? Can you wait for that day to come?”

Incapable of speaking, Patrick nods. Pete’s hold on him tightens.

“And will you also let me keep us safe?” Pete asks, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous as the sound of horses and stragglers in the distance grow near— another mob, come to kill the demon. “Will you let me do this again and again, however long until we’re no longer hunted?”

Patrick can’t help the smile on his face, the dagger of a grin stretching across his cheeks when he pulls back to look at Pete. “I may be destined to burn but I’m more than happy to take others down with me.”

The voices of angry men and women grow closer; Patrick hears their cries for blood.

Pete smiles and places a hand on Patrick’s demonic mark.

Amongst the night and the flames, his eyes burn red.

 


End file.
